Take Me Back Out to the Old Ball Game--of Writing

I met my husband when he hired me--about 13 years ago--to help him organize an idea he had for a screenplay. It was a great idea and used improbable winners in an uphill battle in softball. During the time I worked with him, we slowly fell in love. I stopped taking payments and he started writing, doing everything he could to learn the screenplay formula, including classes and books, etc.

I am a more spontaneous writer, but Peter was a new writer. Granted with lots and lots of talent and promise, but new. He gained confidence as he wrote, but eventually put his screenplay on the back burner to do other big things--become the president of the California Chiropractic Association for one. Then, both of my parents became very ill--For five years, we worked really hard at helping them. I have a job as an editor that is demanding and sometimes distracting to my creative river. Slowly, the softball screenplay faded away.

Then, suddenly, Peter resurrected it! Last night, he began to spin out a fiction version that could be a short story, a novella or even a novel. I read his work with curiosity this morning over coffee. It still intrigued me, but I wanted more action. I realized that, in the screenplay format, action is often sacrificed for dialogue--and dialogue will be sacrificed for rolling image. I should know this instictively after working in television--but it certainly seemed like an explosive insight.

Then, just a day later, he retired the book idea in favor of another great idea that he has been working on, word-by-word. I just had to start editing many raw and rough pieces after that! Somewhere in the midst of this fertile creative patch, I had a long-overdue knee surgery. I'm recovering so quickly! Just a week ago, I was lying around on pain pills. Today, I walked--without a walker or cane--all the way around our block! It feels good, so good, to be on the trail to health again.

To motivate me, Peter has reserved places for us in a Rick Steves tour of Italy for next year. I can't explain how touching that is to me! And I will get there. There will be many entries in the interim--as I scrabble toward my dream (since I was 19) of seeing the art, walking the ancient streets, feeling the presence of Romans and Visigoths! Really, to live again . . .

There's always a surprize in the garden!

Glorious Autumn! We find ourselves growing older and happier as our lives go on. Peter, my husband, is a very unusual man--he has been a chiropractor, retired, gone back to school to learn energy management via a degree in environmental studies. We are always busy here in Kenwood--lots of work in the garden and house. It's been a summer of changes for both of us, but now, it's September and we are looking forward to birthdays and our anniversary.

Life is good!

Journey to Oregon

In late August, we bundled up our woolly jackets and flew to Portland, Oregon, where I was reunited with my cousin, Denton Todhunter, who I fondly refer to as "The Tattoo King of Portland, Oregon. Denton has two tattoo parlors (Beaverton and Salem) and has found a remarkable canvas for his art--the human being. Aside from his impressive skill in the art of tattoo, he is a kind and gentle man, a bit younger than me and a whole lot taller! He and his remarkably funny wife, Lanna, are settled into a lovely neighborhood with a larger-than-life Great Dane, named "Harley" because he is such a knucklehead! I was really glad I made the effort. Denton replaced me for a time as the black sheep of the family. He has settled into a big life full of interesting ideas and many thoughtful endeavors. My parents were proud of him for finding a way to make a living with art--in some ways, similar to the way I have made a living as a poet by writing poetic materials for corporate clients and employers. We are both living proof that all humans can adapt--even when they know art is their calling.

It was especially important for me to see Denton after losing my father. It made me happy to hear stories of my parents from someone who found their eccentricities as dear as I do. And it made me feel that I am not alone.

From Portland, we drove a rental car to Astoria to visit a place I've always called "Wee Willie Winky Town"--the gorgeous and vivid town that nestles on the cusp of the mouth of the Columbia River. In Astoria, we stayed at The Hotel Elliot, a faithful and comfy restoration of a grand old hotel. We loved staying there! Reasonably priced for such a nice accommodation--their motto is "Wonderful Beds!"--This is not an idle boast. We had room 502, with views of the Columbia and its indolent, yet busy sea traffic and the Astoria bridge, which spans the Columbia to the Washington state side.

For two days, we enjoyed Astoria and my pal Gordo's world. He took us to his community radio station where he runs a Saturday night shift, and to numerous seafood and pancake establishments where we ate like hungry dogs. One of the most wonderful mini-excursions was to the Astoria Column which Peter climbed and took photos of the Columbia and the farmlands below.

We laid around in that marvelous bed, drank great red wine and completely relaxed. A true vacation!

Finally, we wandered down the coast to Yachats, a small and funky town (verging on village size) where we stayed at the Shamrock Lodgettes just off Highway 101. This was wonderful--our room faced the ocean, included a kitchenette and fireplace and access to the beach. Despite my gamey leg, we managed to get down on the beach for a terrific walk in the morning among sea birds and ravens. We recommend that little spot in the road if you want to feel you've flown to another world.

From there, we reluctantly made our way to Jacksonville, knowing that it would be our last stop before returning home. We stayed at TouVelle House, where we stay when we are in Ashland for plays. Our hosts, Gary and Tim are always wonderful and funny and the food and rooms are the best!

It's kind of funny how hard it is to realize you need a vacation until you are in the middle of it! One must put enough miles (mental or physical) between themselves and the mean modern world that has grown up around us--to understand the meaning of re-creation. To linger under a particularly beautiful bridge--even if dump trucks are rolling and dumping gravel for the next rainy season--to stop at roadside attractions that remind us of being little kids whose parents needed a break from driving--to suspend disbelief and order something entirely foreign from a greasy spoon menu--all these things contribute to the sense of being reborn, even if it's a transitory (and hopefully endlessly repetitive) emotion.

Natural Magic: Healing in a garden

Natural Magic: Healing in a garden

Healing in a garden

For the past few months, I've been an idle blogger--and writer. I've rehabbed the house, moved, created a memorial for my Dad and arranged for my parents' ashes to be mixed and "strewn at sea" as Dad's last wish stated. This was a beautiful thing, and my daughters and their children came with us. The next day, we held a memorial here in Kenwood in the garden that Peter has worked so hard to revive. It was a lovely day, capped with a Mothers Day breakfast with daughter Zoe and her kids at the Glen Ellen Fire Department.

But now, time has passed. I'm finally paying some attention to myself. Had my second hand surgery in less than a year. This one was much more extensive and removed a terrible (but benign growth) from two major nerves in my left hand. The feeling has returned in four fingers, but not the thumb. Very interesting how one depends on that thumb, even when right handed.

I am making a lot of very big decisions about life. Gladly, my husband, Peter, is helping. I am really ready to get back to writing and doing things with both hands; much more therapy will be necessary before that!

In the meantime, I am tending the garden as best I can with one hand. I have been deadheading flowers and knuckling down pests with a fly swatter. We are very busy this year, even though the garden is a bit smaller; the wild heat wave (which finally broke a couple of days ago) kept me busy with a hose.

Soon, we'll embark for a trip to Ashland, my home town, where we'll see Cyrano, The Merry Wives of Windsor and The Importance of Being Ernest. No tragedies this year! But next year, there may be a performance of King Lear--my favorite tragedy.

But in the meantime, I'll try to remember one of my father's favorite saying each morning as he looked out on his garden: "It's tough to be in a bad mood when you see sunflowers smiling at you!"

The old plum tree in bloom in the front yard of our home.

Making a House a Home . . . again

I’ve inherited Dad’s house—which has seen better days. It’s early 70s California construction with thin walls—but set in the heart of the beautiful Sonoma Valley in the last funky place in wine country, the village Kenwood. This house, a very small and dark suburban-style place with its spider-caked acoustic ceilings and crumbling kitchen cupboards, is beautiful by location. Outside, the leathery Mayacamas beam down on sunny days. When it rains, Hood Mountain glowers with a crown of thunderheads.

Inside, two tiny bedrooms stretch to the heart of darkness itself, the hallway—a lank place with no less than five dark, hollow doors. We finished work on the bitsy bathroom (5x9’). It is beautifully tiled with a tile mural of Monet’s water lilies to remind us of who we are to each other. Off the back, there is a covered deck that is falling apart.

Not much to recommend it?
A gorgeous lot, very large, with a small vineyard and glorious vegetable gardens, year after year. Last fall, we built a yurt out on the back property—a 20’ in diameter on a deck. There are views to a couple of acres of woods behind the yurt, as yet impossible to develop. There is no sewer system in Kenwood. Each villager is on his or her own septic system. Some have their own wells. This year, a stop light will go in on Warm Springs Road, an event that has local padrone Angelino Pedroncelli putting The Kenwood Hotel (not to be confused with the Kenwood Inn, a posh, Tuscan-style spa up the road) up for sale. The hotel is a ramshackle thing, tilting, uninhabited and unadorned for decades. It’s kept Kenwood safe from the expansion of Highway 12, but time (and the voters) have changed the future of Kenwood. Actually, it’s a miracle the hotel hasn’t blown over. This time, Angie is serious, even though the hotel is his birthplace.

Kenwood is Changing
Everything on the village floor is within walking distance: the post office, the gas station, the soccer field and the village park where my father planted the trees. We wonder what it will be like when the sewer is finally voted in. Newcomers from San Francisco (many who bought summer homes now expanded to big, neo-Victorian-style monuments) are willing, but the Kenwood hobos and bohemians aren’t buying it.

Going back down Laurel Avenue to our house, the sheer variety of Kenwoodia staggers the eyes. A greedy, unfathomably lazy developer threw up a few dozen homes in the late 60s and early 70s. Some are flat tops, others are small pensioneer cottages. And that’s where we are, tearing “acoustic” materials (read asbestos-laced cottage cheese) from the little ceilings, pulling up shag carpets and destitute Berbers, laying down ironwood floors and installing new doors occupies our spare hours and those of our contractor, Eric.

In a place like Sonoma County, a contractor is more like the conductor of a poorly tuned, but well-tread orchestra. Eric spends his days sharing the job with “subs” who dash in for three hours here and there to do things he can’t: electrical, tile, sheetrock. Like ghosts of Pompeii, they rise from the dust of the work site and vanish into time.

May the sun shine on your back! Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Hizzoner, the Lord Mayor of Kenwood

A Tale of $2 Shamrocks

This afternoon, I was in the grocery and saw a pot of shamrocks. Every St. Patrick's Day, Dad would have me hunt some down--often at great expense. This was a 4" potted plant, and the shamrocks were spectacular--and they were only $2--cheap for shamrocks, as Dad might say. I took them out to the car and suddenly couldn't stop crying. I was thinking how pleased he would be if he had ridden with me and been presented with such a lovely pot of shamrocks. I couldn't stop. I must have been there a long time, because I had to turn on the car and the heater! (It snowed here!)

I thought, well, this is ridiculous. He lived nearly 97 years and it wasn't like I was the only one who sought his favor with shamrocks. So I calmed down and started to drive. About three miles from home on the two-lane road leading to our house, a sudden well of brilliant blue skies opened up on the horizon. I thought to myself -- just the color of his eyes. Suddenly, I was happy, not forlorn. It was--as he would say--a cheerful, authentic sign that I had such an advantage in life -- his puckish Irish twinkle and those eyes--which I have myself.

Wow. Turned my mood around. So here I am--with so many mind-numbing details to manage, saddened by his absence, yet laughing happily at the thought of his wink in that gloomy, wet sky.

I do everything I can these days to find cheer--and there it was, sunshine and a blue sky--just for me, from him and his shamrocks.

56 Years Ago

A Daughter Says Good Voyage to Her Father

At about 1:30 a.m., the caregiver called and I ran next door with Peter. She simply said, "There's a change." On the way, I noticed a full moon and vibrant stars overhead, light at night like I've never seen it in Kenwood, where the evening sky is often inky black.

I got to his room, where he had laid for two days. Now he was peaceful—breathing irregularly, but more calm. I sat down beside him and tried to call him, but he did not open his eyes.

I started to tell the story again, the one that I've been telling him all week. "I'm building you a beautiful boat," I kept saying, "filled with every flower you've ever grown. When it's ready, you can leave." This time, I ended by saying, "The boat is ready now, it’s time to leave." Peter and I called out that we loved him, and Dad took another breath.

And there it ended, without a cry or a shout. He completely relaxed, yet he still seemed alive. I looked at Peter, who said, "It was only one breath. He's not exactly breathing." I looked down and saw the terrible exactitude for myself and faced its ultimate result, as he might say, "not the penultimate.” This is it, I remember thinking, footprints that disappear in mid-air, the devastation of love that disappears into the night we do not know.

He lived as he died, in Kenwood in a worn pensioneer's cottage, with green life all around him. He was nearly 97 this morning. He lived through two world wars, two major conflicts, and may other kinds of wars. He loved telling stories and writing. He was a remarkable gardener. As mother once said, “he could spit on the ground and it would grow.” My father raised sunflowers and admirers wherever he went. He never had an enemy that I knew of, and helped everyone he could.

But he was tired and lonesome for people like him who still darned socks and used a telegraph key for fun and taught themselves languages to pass the time. He was the kind of guy who liked to fix things. In the last few years, his repairs were misshapen and, at times, bigger and uglier than what was broken in the first place, combining nuts and bolts, nails and duct tape, with a dash of WD40 to keep it greased.

Life was changing faster than he could. Dad hated the sound of cell phones and answering machines, preferring a telephone bell to a beep. He was born in 1909, a poor Irish tenant farmer’s middle son. He outlived his entire family (of which there were many brothers and two sisters.) Like them, he was loving and had wonderful humor and required a fine ale at supper and dinner. Please join me tonight in a warm thought of Glen Smith, who used his ingenuity and innate curiosity to travel the world, living in China, The Philippines and Japan, finally ending up in Kenwood, CA—a small village of 400 or so souls, with homes of uncertain design, a village so much like the little town where he started out.

There will be a memorial service this spring. I will contact you to let you know more in a few weeks.

On the Way to The Great Wall

Dad in the late 20's in China. He was preparing to cross The Great Wall by camel train and stopped to whet his whistle. When I asked how far he gotten, he laughed and said, "Two blocks!" He was one of the Old China Hands, men who came to China with the 15th Infantry. He would stay for many years, fascinated by China and it's remarkable beauty. Later, he would explore other Asian countries, including stints living in The Philippines and Japan. He learned the language everywhere he went--a poor, Irish farm boy with a belief in predestination and an impatient world, "waiting for you to set foot."

Journey with Dad at 96

My life and Peter's have revolved around my parents for a long time. Mother passed away three years ago--and now Dad has been placed at home in hospice care. It is a fascinating and intimate experience that Peter and I have dedicated ourselves to--learned from--and changed our lives to meet the various challenges.Dad has had numerous hospitalizations in the past year--and basically, they are mostly due to extreme old age and the implications of a strong spirit that has likely outlived his nearly 97 years.

Although he doesn't suffer mentally like Mother did, he has finally been diagnosed with a mild form of dementia. He, as our grandson Briston has said, "is still Gramps in the center". His loving and outgoing personality is still there. He loves being hugged and kissed, loves travel videos and even took a ride with Peter yesterday in our new car--a Toyota Prius he delightedly calls the "gas miser."For those of you who don't know, hospice means that doctors think a person has six months or less to live.

While Dad has pulled out of every nose dive thus far (and some have been terrible and breathtaking) his time is finally coming. For the first time during this last hospitalization, he said "I'm dying." At his age, most people would say, "of course." We think, "naturally." But his spirit--the stuff that makes him Glen--is so unfathomably young that it's hard to believe. We have been lucky to keep Dad here in our little village--where natural beauty and a slow pace make life much more enjoyable for all of us. He has had wonderful care from Fijian caregivers who have wonderful and gentle senses of humor. Now, there are hospice workers and volunteers and a terrific traveling doctor who drives out here to care for him. We know he has the best of all possible worlds.

Some of you have already been through these experiences with your parents; some are like us, experiencing our parents well into old age and beyond. It is an intense experience--fraught with uncertainty (are we doing the "right" thing--are we doing the right thing for wrong reasons--are we doing the wrong thing for right reasons, etc.) with a kind of richness that is difficult (even for a poet with enormous adverbial tendencies) to express properly. A dear friend gave me two wonderful books this holiday that have really enriched my spiritual understanding of this part of life: The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion and Gilead by Marilynne Johnson. Both are remarkable books with fine writing. Although very different from this experience, there is a core of insight that has been a balm to me. I recommend them both.

We realize that we have been preoccuppied and distracted during these times. The focus we have given to this experience has sometimes made other family members or friends feel shortchanged. And we have ignored things that we both need in life--creative space, travel, professional development, personal endeavor and material goods that we have foregone. Still, I'm so happy we've been able to do this. As humans, we travel through life looking for the real thing--and often return to the place we started to "find it." On this journey, I've learned so much about forgiveness, compassion and happiness in the midst of great sadness and confusion. I can only say from my own experience that life is richer having made the effort.

Dad is quiet and resting. Some days are better than others. He adores his great grandchildren and is proud of his grandchildren--and keeps track of everyone from Incline Village to Dallas to London. He has a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction in life. It's a good feeling, in fact, contagious. Some days, (like our old cat Biscottini) he just likes sitting in the sun. All these things are happiness at its simplest and most complex.

As someone said to me the other day, "Life isn't a grand tour of France with a happy ending, it's a dusty caravan that continues on through storms and high winds--hopefully with love, friendship and laughter."

On the road with Usui in Tokyo, Japan 1951

Natural Magic

Last night you floated like an island
In an indecipherable cove where all is calm
You floated on your back, breathing
Slowly, floating like rice paper on a wave
The more irritable the seas, the calmer
You became, as if light had settled in

To a window on the port bow
Where illumination pours out
Where the air comes in
You floated like a rag on bathwater
You bobbed on winter skies above the rains
Alongside the North Star, astride the bears—
Steady in the great seas, a barge of constancy

Unheeding of the cries that surrounded you
Unknowing of the violent tides or
The storms that come, what may
You slid along on the surface
Elegant and slow as a barge, low in the water
Perfectly steady, perfectly tranquil, balanced

On your weightless back, as if your spine
Had become a rope floating in the lake
As if all the stars that licked
The shores around you had become
The curve and angle of you, shining
Like an ancient horizon where nothing
Is known and no one fears the unknown

© 2000 Viola Weinberg

The poet in Sonoma Plaza with the best cup of coffee in the world.